


The Phantom goes Cockney

by WarnerHedgehog



Category: EastEnders, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Bill Bailey - Freeform, Cats, Comedy, Coronation Street - Freeform, Crossover, Duckworth - Freeform, EastEnders - Freeform, Gaston Leroux - Freeform, Gen, Hilda - Freeform, Humour, Les Misérables References, Lloyd-Webber, Mash-up, Neighbours, Parody, The Bill - Freeform, Vera - Freeform, cockney, thenardier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:04:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6610027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarnerHedgehog/pseuds/WarnerHedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phantom of the Opera meets EastEnders via a blender, this is more of a very strange mash-up than a normal crossover. Think of it as the Eastenders cast doing a mad parody. Inspired by Bill Bailey's 'Cockney Intro' routine, and by the idea of a cockney version of Lloyd-Webber's 'Music of the Night', this generally makes Joel Schumacher's Phantom film a lot sillier.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here the scene is set.

Walford Theatre, 1990  
We pan down from a flickering sepia-toned street light to the black-and-white steps of the theatre. The theatre is a burnt out wreck, a mere shadow of its former self. There is an auction of various theatrical relics going on.  
The auctioneer is standing at an ancient battered looking podium. He has a small gavel in front of him and a notebook. “Lot 320. Here we have a poster of James Bowen’s ‘Bullseye’ in its original condition.” He declared “Am I bid 2 quid? Thank you. Three? Any more? Five pounds from the gentleman at the back. Any more? Ok. Going....Gone. “ He slammed his gavel, “Sold to the dodgy looking bloke from the BBC.”  
Another object was brought up, "Lot 321, a mock silver chequebook and pen from Wogan and Dawson's Blankety Blank. This particular example has been signed by the infamous Red Todgers and his dubious sidekick Busty Din. I'm starting this one at 3 pounds." A hand off to his left raised, "3 pounds to Mr. Virgo. Do I hear four?" no hands raised, so the auctioneer banged his gavel, "Sold to the snooker commentator."   
The next item was brought in. “Lot 322. Here we have a music box in the shape of a rolled-out barrel. Sitting on top is the figure of a Lemur in a Zoot Suit playing a washboard.” He looked at it in disgust, “Yeack...Am I bid 50p?”  
There was a hand raised at the back of the room. “Ah, the Viscount of Camberwick. Do I hear £1?”  
Another hand rose. “Madame Beery, the bid is yours. Do I hear £2?”  
The viscount raised his hand “£2 to the viscount. Do we have £3? Thank you Madame Beery. Any more? £4 to the viscount. Madame Beery?” she shook her head, “Ok. Going to the Viscount of Camberwick...Going...Gone!” He banged his gavel on the podium causing a bit of veneer to fall off the side. “Cheap crud,” he muttered “Honestly, Why couldn’t I get a gig in a Shakespeare novel?”

The Viscount looked at his new purchase, turning it so it caught the light. “A collector’s piece my foot. Every detail is exactly as she said. This really is an awful chunk of tat.”  
The auctioneer had drifted off and was staring absently into space until an assistant poked his shoulder with a stick to snap him out of it, “Next lot guv,” he whispered.  
“Oh. Right, right. Next lot” stammered the auctioneer, “Lot 323. A ruined chandelier in quite a lot of bits. Rumour has it that this awful piece of art-deco junk was the very chandelier the figured in the infamous cock-up. We re-wired it to try to make it a bit less dangerous, but it caused another fire when we switched the blasted thing on, so it’s even more dangerous now. So at the behest of the author we’ve called in some special effect guys with some smoke and clever lights and they are going to raise the crappy chandelier up in a wonderfully over-dramatic and theatrical fashion so that the director can put in some flashy effects and do a very nice transition to the theatre’s days of glory. Maybe we can scare away the ghosts of the past with a little electrical illumination. Gentlemen.” Thus he waved an expansive hand to signal to the effects bods that they may start their magic. With the marvel that is Hollywood, as the chandelier goes up it cleverly reverts back to its pristine form and we smoothly change from grainy Black-and-white to bright and vibrant colour and the hustle and bustle of theatre’s heyday.


	2. New Managers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Theatre has been sold and there are new bosses.

Walford Theatre, 1961 

Billy Mitchell, the mask-wearing and vaguely disfigured Pearly King lived in the disused and partially flooded underground station that sat directly under Walford Theatre. He was of the opinion that he ran the theatre and often gave people – mostly the manager- notes telling them what he’d like them do.  
For some inexplicable reason he couldn’t stand resident star singer Letitia Carlotta and kept playing pranks on her such as putting needless cockney intros in her songs to throw her off. He’d been doing this for months, and finally she seemed to be getting the hint.  
Billy hadn’t just limited his efforts just to annoying Letitia though: He had seen a potential Pearly Queen in dancer Chrissie Bianca Dyer and had taken her under his wing.  
In an effort to provide an alternative to what he saw as the ‘screeching harpy who regularly sings at the theatre’, he had been secretly teaching Chrissie how to play the spoons, upright piano and sing drinking songs ‘proper cockney-like’. 

The theatre up till now had been under the management of Basildon native and one time hula dancer Alfie Moonlight, but he had been growing increasingly irritated by the Phantom’s constant nagging messages and needless harassment of the staff and had decided that enough was enough: it was time to sell up.  
He had to resort to getting the deal sorted out in a bistro in Holby City to avoid the resident masked fool interfering, and it had worked. He had sold the theatre to Phil and Grant Slag: camp, long haired brothers who were formerly used car salesmen.  
The theatre was gearing up for the next big production and was currently rehearsing Donovan’s “Neighbours”.  
They were going through the song where the cast sing about how bad Paul Robinson is and how his schemes keep getting on their nerves, unfortunately the leading tenor; Ernie Panell kept mispronouncing the word ‘Erinsborough’. Just as the director came over to correct him for the umpteenth time, Alfie walked onto the stage, clapped his hands and shouted: “Quiet, quiiiiet! Everybody gather round. As you all know, there have been many rumours circling about my imminent retirement. I can now confirm they’re all true and as of the end of today, I’m going to naff off.”  
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” snapped Ernie.  
“Sorry Ern,” replied Alfie, “It’s got to happen. After last month’s production of ‘Pal Jordan’ I thought I was a guinea pig for a couple of days. I’m going mad here and have to get out.”  
“Fair Enough boss, can’t really argue with that.” was Ernie’s response.  
“These Two gentlemen will be your new managers” He indicated the two gaudily dressed gentlemen by his side. “Phillip and Grant Slag. They want to improve their sad, pitiful lives and are getting out from the rip-off business,”  
“Used Cars actually,” interrupted Grant.  
“Oh, so sorry, I meant to say knackered motor business, and they are intent on starting afresh and wrecking ours,” he smoothly carried on.  
“Where are you going to go?” Asked Phil.  
“Norwich” replied Alfie, “It’s better than this awful hole, and I’ve applied to be a manager at a Burger Queen.”  
“From flipping his lid to flipping burgers, the man’s clearly mad. We are proud to be your new managers and hope that everything will continue as smoothly as before. As if finding out you have new bosses wasn’t enough, we have another little surprise for you all,” Said a grinning Phil, “We have an associate who may help us somehow. May we introduce Ricky Bee, Viscount of Camberwick Green”  
On to the stage strode Ricky. He had effeminate shoulder length hair and was dressed in what looked to be an Adam Ant outfit.  
Chorus girls Chrissie and Mo stood together at the side of the stage. “Blimey!” said Chrissie “It’s Ricky. I remember him from karaoke nights down in Weymouth. I were a right randy ol’ mare back then. I doubt he’ll remember me though, the poncy berk.”  
As they got back to practicing their song-and dance routine, the baton-wielding chorus leader Peggy Beery started to show the two new owners around the place.  
“Who is that little beauty?” says Grant and pointed at Chrissie.  
“That’s Chrissie Bianca Dyer. An orphan and very promising talent”  
“An orphan you say” leered Grant in a lecherous way.  
“Yes. I think of her as a daughter. Try anything and you’ll be a soprano.”  
Phil hurriedly stepped into the conversation “No relation the famous Trombone player Lenny Dyer?”  
“His only daughter. She came here when he died. God knows why.”  
“Mad. And who is that blonde creature?” Phil pointed at Mo.  
“That’s Mo, my actual daughter. “ Peggy spun around and poked her rather pointy baton into Phil’s groin. “You two are a pair of lecherous old gits. Lay off the slimy casting couch act quick or I’ll skewer your nuts and nail them to a plank.”  
“Okay,” Phil squeaked.  
Alfie was watching this and thought it best to diffuse the situation. “Excuse me Peggy, but enough of the comedic violence. Gentlemen, can I introduce you to our star: Letitia Carlotta?”  
“Would you do us the honour of singing a song madame?” asked Phil.  
“I would, but that bleedin’ Pearly King keeps ruining my songs” she wailed “So I’m not bleedin’ doing it. You can sod off. Besides, I’ve been watching you two salivating over the backing singers. You’re as bad as this berk.” she gave Alfie’s tie a flip. “So until you stop these things happening, THIS THING DOES NOT HAPPEN!” she stood there, arms folded tapping her toe.  
“Goddess of Song!” shouted phil.  
“Bella Donna!” Grant joined in  
“Oh go on,” Phil pleaded, “You’re not nearly as bad as that masked lummox says. Isn’t there a marvellous aria in act IV of Neighbours?”  
“If my managers command,” she smiled.  
“We do,” said Phil and Grant in unison.  
She sauntered over to an upright piano and lifted the lid. She looked at Raymond the band leader who was hurriedly flipping through the score for the right section. When he and the band were there she said “Maestro”.  
“Madame,” Raymond smoothly replied.  
Letitia did a regular intro and the band joined in. She started to sing but suddenly a previously unnoticed rope attached to the back of the piano went taught and the instrument was hauled high into the air. The music stopped dead.  
“Oh my god it’s the Phantom!” shouted the excitable Mo.  
“Oh for Christ’s sake!” shouted Letitia, “Right, that does it. I’m off!”  
And at that she stormed off in a huff.  
Ernie Panell walked over to Phil and grant and pointed at them, “Fruitcakes,” he said. He threw his hat at them and followed Letitia.  
While everyone stood on the main stage bleating in confusion, Peggy had wandered off to the side. As she meandered, the phantom dropped an envelope onto her head.  
She swiped it out of her hair and looked at it. “Cheers you masked tit,” she muttered and headed back to the stage.  
She pushed a curtain aside and saw that Phil has pulled a brandy bottle from his coat and started drinking, and Grant was trying to chat up one of the dancers.  
She went over to Grant and poked him in the side, “’ere, fatso, I have a note for you” she said, “It’s from the Theatre Ghost”.  
“Theatre Ghost?!” Spluttered Grant “You’ve gone mad, woman. “ He looked around for the girl he was talking to only to find she’d quickly legged it while he was distracted. “Cheers you stupid tart. She’s buggered off!”  
“Good thing too you lecherous old goat. Now read the note.” She stared at him.  
Grant ripped the envelope open and looked at it. “No. You read it. He’s YOUR Theatre Ghost!”  
“Oh all right,” She replied “The Pearly King welcomes you to HIS theatre, and he commands you to leave Box 3 empty for his personal use.”  
“His theatre?!” Said Phil  
“He Commands?!” said Grant “Is that it?”  
“Nope. There’s more – He says his salary has not been paid. He asks for 500 quid and a pack of fags to be put in a brown envelope in box 3 so he can collect it when he wishes.”  
“500 pounds?” exclaimed Grant “And a packet of fags?! So he can ponce around here at will and wreck things like a chain-smoking elephant in a particularly tatty museum?”  
“Perhaps you can afford more with that camp Viscount as your bank roll” said Peggy.  
Everyone stood there in disbelief for a few seconds. Grant was the first to speak “Oh Great! Thanks for that. I was hoping to make a meal out of announcing that little gem tonight, but you’ve ruined my little surprise. Cheers. To make it worse, before we can present our first show our chuffing star quits. All because some masked loon who thinks he runs the place makes a bunch of needless demands. To top it all it was a full house! I shall have to refund a full house!” He snatched the note out of Peggy’s hands and tore it up.  
Phil suddenly clicked his fingers “Understudy!” he shouted, “Who’s the understudy?”  
“Understudy?” Raymond shouted, “There IS no understudy. Carlotta gave the last one rat poison by ‘mistake’ and now no-one will take the position.”  
“Oh knickers!” snapped Grant, throwing the torn up note in the air, “Now we definitely have to refund a full house because there’s no lead singer!”  
Mo suddenly piped up “Chrissie can do it mister.” She pushed Chrissie forward.  
“What? A bloody backing dancer? Have you gone totally loopy?” said a red-faced Phil.  
“Maybe” responded Madame Beery “But she’s been taught by a proper cockney and no mistake.”  
“What’s this geezer’s name?” Phil asked.  
Chrissie looked nervous, “I only know him as Maestro.”  
“Lord love a duck!” muttered Grant as he rolled his eyes and took a swig from his hip flask.  
Peggy gently shoved Chrissie toward the piano. “Give ‘em a song me girl” she said and gave the girl a slap on the back. Chrissie went nervously to the only other working piano on the stage and played ‘Toadie Is My Lawyer and He Gets Me Off”.  
“Well I’ll be rogered with a stiff wire brush!” exclaimed Grant.  
“Nice chest AND a good voice” agreed Phil, only to receive a baton between the legs from Peggy.


	3. After the Lambeth Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissie has wowed the easily pleased Theatre set with her debut lead performance. What will happen now?

After her debut lead performance at the theatre, Chrissie went to a small room which was forgotten by most and contained a little shrine to her father. Mo followed her to congratulate her mate: “Where did you learn to do the Lambeth Walk like that?”  
Chrissie shrugged and said “When my father died, he promised he would send the ‘Fairy of Music’ to be my guide. He did Mo: That’s who’s been teaching me on the sly.”  
“Oh come on!” Mo retorted, “The Fairy of Music? Are you having a giraffe?”  
“No, straight up Mobot,” Chrissie went all glassy eyed, “When the theatre is dark, The Fairy of Music speaks to me through my mirror and teaches me to sing. He said that if I was to tell anyone then it would all go to bollocks.”  
“Good job you’ve kept Schtum then innit?” mused Mo, not realising that it had all just gone to bollocks.  
Chrissie lit a candle, nodded to the picture of her dad and then stood up. “Come on missy, it’s time to return to the dressing room.”  
As they made their way upstairs, Mo kept on badgering: “Oh go on tell me – who’s been teaching you really?”  
Chrissie looked all serious, “I told you Mo, it’s the Fairy of Music. Honest.”  
As they walked, Madame Beery joined them, “Mo, go down the road and get me some fags will you? I’m gasping,” She proffered a fiver to Mo.  
“Oh all right mum,” Mo replied. She grabbed the cash and almost instantly disappeared.  
“That’s a fiver straight down the drain. She’ll be on the sherbet again no doubt. I'll be lucky to get some dirt cheap woodbines.” Madame Beery muttered.  
“Madame B. How did I do tonight?” asked Chrissie.  
“Not bad kid. Better that that loudmouth Letitia anyways,” responded Peggy.  
“Cheers me duck. Who the hell are all these people?” said Chrissie as they approached the throng outside the dressing room.  
Peggy sniffed derisively, “Reporters, toffs, gawpers, slack jawed idiots and perverts mostly. Shift yer bloomin’ arses!” she yelled.  
With a suitable amount of elbowing, yelling and shoving, they barged their way through and got to the dressing room. Before anyone could sensibly ask any questions they ran in and slammed the door behind them.  
Peggy spotted a pineapple with a note pinned to it on the dresser. “You’ve done well. He’s pleased with you” she said.  
“How do you know?” asked Chrissie  
“It says so here,” she picked up the odd fruit and removed the note, which she handed to Chrissie who read it. It said ‘You’ve done well. I’m proud of you.' Miss Dyer stared at it for a moment, "Is that it? A pineapple with a note?” she said turning it over in the hope he’d written something a tad more meaningful on the other side, “Come to think of it, why a pineapple?”  
“He’s mysterious. That’s why. Either that or he’s finally gone loopy.” was the reply. Peggy looked about, “I’ll be back in a bit, I wanna see if I can get rid of some of those berks outside.” and with that she left.

Outside, Phil and Grant were having a natter with Ricky. “It seems our new star has returned to her dressing room. May we present you to her?” said Phil smoothly.  
“Sorry gentlemen, but this is a visit I’d prefer to make unaccompanied.” Ricky looked at the flowers that Grant was holding “Are these for me? Cheers!” He snatched them from a surprised Grant and headed to Chrissie’s dressing room.  
“What a rude toff.” Phil spluttered.  
Ricky pushed the door open quietly and slipped in. Chrissie was sat at her make-up table, rummaging through a packet sweeties. Ricky spoke “Little Betty; are you fonder of shoes, goblins or mountains of chocolate? And where is your red mu-mu, and after I had gone to all the trouble to retrieve it?”  
“Because it had fallen off while I was mooching about on Chesil Beach! Ricky, it is you!” she exclaimed.  
“Darn tootin’ lady!” he replied. “Where on Io did you learn to sing like that?”  
“Well, when dad died he said he’d send the Fairy of Music to watch over and guide me. Well, he has snuffed it and I have been visited by the Fairy of Music.”  
“No doubt you have, and you’ve done him proud. Come, we must go to a fast food joint that the author of this tripe can’t name for legal reasons.” Ricky was getting on his posh high horse.  
“No Ricky, the Fairy of Music is very strict. I must stay here and play dominoes before practicing for an hour.” Chrissie stated.  
“Nonsense!” blurted out a self-important Ricky, ”We eat. Be at the taxi rank in 5 minutes.” He exited to brag to Phil and Grant about his new ‘conquest’.  
Just as the door closed behind him the lights went dim and the large door-sized mirror seemed to speak to her. “Ignorant fool, this big-eared pillock, basking in your glory. Glorious twit, this slave of poor fashion, trying to muscle in on my triumph! ’Allo darlin’” it said in a slightly creepy voice, “You did good out there. A right old knees up and no mistake."  
“Ta Maestro,” replied Chrissie.  
“You want to see my boat? It’s got big oars.” Billy leered.  
“Yeah, all right,” she absently replied and went toward the mirror which mysteriously slid open. 

While Chrissie was being chatted up by the phantom, Ricky was still gabbling on to Phil and Grant who were both ignoring him while trying to get the attention of an attractive blonde reporter.  
Suddenly it occurred to Ricky that he could hear a bloke singing, and it seemed to be coming from inside Chrissie’s dressing room. He put his ear to the door and wasn’t happy with what he was hearing.  
He tried pushing the door but it wouldn’t budge.  
“Try turning the handle you stupid flouncy git!” shouted Phil.  
Ricky turned the handle like a berk and after far too much over dramatic flailing at it, the door opened, but he was too late: no-one was inside.


	4. Going Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Pearly King has taken Chrissie from her dressing room via a suspiciously door-like mirror and they're now going daaahhhnn!

Billy led Chrissie down a long winding stone staircase. It looked like it belonged in a stereotypical Bavarian castle rather than a London theatre.  
After a small eternity, Chrissie looked up, “Where are we going?” she asked  
“Err...Down” Billy replied. Then rather more jauntily he added: “We’re off to my den. Not long till we get to the bottom.”  
Shortly they reached the last step. Billy stopped, looked back up the steps and then said “Hang on here a tick.”  
He went to a cubby hole and pulled out a diversion sign and put it at the bottom of the staircase. It pointed left, and they walked right. “Don’t want any floppy haired nitwits following us do we?”  
After a wander down a eerily lit tunnel, they came to a flooded section of underground rail line. There was a small rustic jetty with a gondola type boat waiting for them.   
“I said I’d show you my boat: Hop aboard” Billy held her hand as she boarded. He followed, pulled a cord to start the outboard motor and steered towards his lair.  
“I thought you said it’s got big oars?” Chrissie commented.  
“Ah well, that’s artistic licence innit?” was his reply.  
“A barrowfull of old porkies then." Chrissie observed.   
”You could put it like that if you were being pedantic.” snapped the Pearly King, “Just blame it on the writer being inconsistent.”  
They soon entered an enormous artificial cavern, lit by a countless mass of candles. “Welcome to my home Christine. Walford Underground Station: closed since the great Thames Water Level Estimate Design Error.“  
“I thought this place was a myth.” Chrissie whispered as she looked around the huge space, there were old panto posters, a dead piano or two dotted around, candles by the score and in one corner a giant fibreglass Queen Victoria. Around its neck was a sign that read 'Get out of my pub!'  
“Don’t ask about the Queen Vic. Please.” Billy solemnly requested.  
“Yeah all right then,” Chrissie vaguely replied. She was mesmerised by the acres of mouldy old theatre junk.  
They pulled up to another small rustic jetty and Billy quickly killed the motor and tied the boat up. He then ambled over to a piano and played a portion of a tune. “It’s called ‘Haircut 100 of the Night’. It’s not finished yet but I don’t think it’s too bad so far.”  
“Yeah...s’not bad mate,” she responded. Chrissie was still stunned by all the stuff around her. She saw an ornate mirror in the corner that was next to a poster of “Carry on Escaping”. Both were covered in dust. The Pearly King got up from his piano and led her around his little domain, showing her bits and pieces. “This is from the theatre’s heyday” He indicated a poster from a bygone production of ‘El Dorado – The Lost Ratings’. They passed a blue and white hat on a stand, “This is the hat from the 1953 production of Lingstrom’s ‘Andy Pandy and Mephistopheles’ and here we have...” He whipped the cover from what looked like a big coffin. “Bruce Forsythe’s first Generation Game Suit.”  
The stench of mothballs coming from the suit was so strong that it knocked her clean out.  
“Oh bugger. I do hate it when that happens.” Billy muttered.

When she finally woke up Chrissie again looked around the lair: It still looked like a dusty wax-smothered tip. Sitting at a battered old IKEA desk was the Pearly king. He seemed to be furiously writing something.  
“What are you writing Maestro?” Chrissie enquired.  
“It’s my greatest work my dear. When the time is right, then you shall know what it is. Till then you’ll have to wait me duck.” responded the Pearly King.  
“In that case, answer this one. Why the weird mask?”Chrissie countered.  
“I like wearing masks. What can I say?” He replied.  
“Oh go on” Chrissie pleaded “Take it off. For little old me?”  
“Chuff off. Go and do one. Not even for you” Billy sternly stated.  
“Oh poot!” said Chrissie in annoyance.  
“Poot? What sort of cussing is ‘poot’?” Billy stared at Chrissie as if she had turned into a stoat.  
“It’s so we can get this rubbish past the censors. They hate proper swearing. That’s why the ‘Poot’ is there.” Chrissie snapped back. She glowered at the author, daring him to write something sarcastic. He declined.  
“Fair enough” was the Pearly King’s response. Billy got back to his furious scribbling while Chrissie had a nose around the lair. She sensibly avoided the stinky Bruce Forsythe suit.  
After a little while she got bored with looking at knackered theatrical cast-offs, so she carefully sidled up to the Pearly King and quickly nabbed his mask. Due to the arcane laws of authorship, I’m not allowed to describe his face: Let’s just say it put the willies up Chrissie good and proper.  
“Oh for Lloyd Webber’s sake will you quit doing that!” he yelled. He stomped over to her and snatched it back. “Give me that, you silly tart.”   
After a couple of moments he calmed down and says “Right-o. Taking you down here was a bad idea wasn’t it? I’d best take you back to those Junk-heap lemons upstairs I suppose. I imagine they’ll be missing you.” he paused before adding, "Don't fancy a shag first?"

Meanwhile:  
Frank Bucket, the lecherous old scene shifter was ‘entertaining’ the chorus girls. “Like grey parchment is his skin” he leered “A hole serves as the nose that” a dramatic pause,” never grew. Always be on your guard or he’ll catch you with his magical lasso!”  
“Bollocks,” said one of the girls, “we all know he’s just a freaky weirdo in a mask.”  
Peggy Beery suddenly marched in: she’d been earwigging at the door. “Lay off it Frank, you lecherous old drunkard. You’ve been drinking the floor cleaner again haven’t you?”  
“Yeah? What if I have? What you gonna do about it?” said a defiant Frank.  
She walked right up to him and rammed her knee hard between his legs “For a start, that. And what if the Pearly King hears you? He might not like people saying uncomplimentary things about him. You may not live long enough to see the end of the next chapter at this rate.” She knelt next to his head and whispered “Remember what happens to Joseph Buquet in every single version of the Phantom of the Opera. He gets done in each and every time and you’re this story’s take on him.”  
“Right you are,” wheezed frank as he lay on the floor, clutching his parts in pain.


	5. A Plethora of Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Chrissie's disappearance. Expect a lot of correspondence from a mysterious masked man.

It was the morning after the gala performance and the saga of the vanishing leading lady.  
Phil had gone to the pub after Chrissie’s disappearance, and was now headed back to the Theatre. He had a bad hangover and was muttering to himself, “What a way to run a business! Spare me these unending trials! I thought conning people into buying clapped out motors was hard enough, but this is ludicrous.”  
As he entered the foyer, two cleaners who were busy tidying up after the legions of toffs that had descended the previous evening, just looked at each other. “Why is he singing to himself?” asked the first one.  
“It’s either because he’s mad, or he’s been sniffing something. You know what theatre types are like” responded the second. They both shared a hum of disapproval, shrugged andgot back to their work.  
Phil went up the stairs to his office and found Grant sitting on the couch. He had a newspaper in front of him, and a sealed note.  
“Have you read the papers Mister Phil?” asked Grant.  
“I have indeed” replied his partner “Half the cast disappears, yet the crowds still cheer! Honestly, you can’t get better publicity than a bit of a scandal.”  
“Agreed. Unfortunately it means that while we get good write-ups, we can’t stage anything as the cast have all cleared off. Well, the leading ones anyway,” Grant stated.  
“Do we have anyone left working here at all?” Phil enquired.  
“Well, we have an eejit writing notes like this at us,” Grant wasn’t amused and passed his note to Phil.  
Phil read it aloud: “Dear Grant what charming Gala. Chrissie was in a word ‘okay’. I’m so glad that old harridan Letitia’s been taken back to the sty. She should be happier now.”  
Grant pointed to the desk “That’s not all me old china. There’s one for you as well.”  
Phil looked over at it with disgust. He stalked over and snatched it up, quickly tore off the wax seal and read “Dear Phillip just a brief reminder, my 500 quid and the pack of fags are still outstanding. Hurry up and pay, there’s a good monkey. PTO” He turned the note over “Pay up. No-one likes a debtor so it’s better if my orders are obeyed, innit guv?”  
“Who would have the gall to send this?” asked Grant.  
“Arsed if I know. An eejit like you said I suspect: Someone with a puerile brain. Pearly King of the theatre indeed: He needs a good hard slap.” was Phil’s earnest reply. “He calls himself ‘The Theatre Spirit’ apparently. Sounds like someone who’s drunk too much spirit more like.”  
They were interrupted by the footsteps of Viscount of Camberwick, who was quickly hurrying up the stairs. Phil turned toward Ricky and asked “Oh not now you poofy haired berk. Can’t you see we’re having a whinge?”  
“Shut up Phillip. Where’s Chrissie?” Ricky wasn’t happy,” I hope this isn’t some moronic publicity stunt you’ve dreamt up is it? I recall you were rather fond of those back when you were flogging dodgy motors.”  
“Of course it bloody isn’t. Why would we make our own star performer vanish? What’s the point in that?” Grant snapped back.  
“Publicity, cloth ears, like I said.” retorted Ricky.  
“Oh yeah, now I see where you’re coming from, but no. It wasn’t us.” Grant sheepishly replied.  
“You didn’t send me this rather childish and badly written note then?” said the Viscount, taking a folded up piece of paper from his inside pocket.  
“Why would we send you a note?” asked Phil.  
“It wasn’t us,” Grant said, “Lets ‘ave a gander.” Ricky handed it over.  
Grant started to read aloud: “No probs me ol’ mucker, no probs. Don’t you fret about Chrissie none, cos the Fairy of Muzak, what awfully bad spelling there, Music has her safe and sound like, so you ain’t gonna get no look in no more.”  
Phil looked confused, “That was just a load of indecipherable gibberish!” he exclaimed.  
Suddenly there was commotion at the main door to the theatre. Letitia Carlotta had just shoved the doorman aside and strode in forcefully waving a piece of paper in the air with Ernie in tow. “Where’s that bleedin’ Viscount bloke?” She yelled. “Why in the name of Declan Donnelly’s face have you sent me this letter? A rather insulting letter I may add!"  
Ricky snatched it out of her hand as she got to the top of the stairs and read it out, “Oh horrendous lady, your days at Walford Theatre are numbered. Chrissie Dyer will sing tonight. If you try to replace her it’ll all go Pete Tong. It’ll go tits up in a way you can’t possibly imagine."  
“All these notes! All these threats and orders! Does this masked twerp have nothing better to do?” Phil whined.  
“You said it Phillip,” Agreed Grant ,“Most of them bigging up that bloody Dyer woman. All we get is Chrissie will sing this, or she’ll be great at that. I bet I know what he’d really like her to do.”  
Before they could get too worked up, Peggy appeared “You’ll be pleased to know that Chrissie Dyer is back.  
Ricky asked “Is she all right?”  
“Will she sing, will she sing?” chorused Carlotta and Ernie.  
Grant butted in “Where is the annoying, sorry I meant poor stricken dear now?”  
“She’s resting.” Peggy replied before casting her eyes to the floor in apparent shame, “Before he brought her back, the Pearly King apparently did his Elvis impersonation routine. When I got to her all she kept saying was ‘Look at the little pink frogs. Hello froggies!’ I’ve given her some gin so she should be better in an hour or two”.  
“Can I see her?” asked Ricky.  
“Hallucinating again Ricky?” smirked Grant.  
“Shut up” came the stern reply.  
“Can I go and see her?" He asked again.  
“Let her rest you sex mad perv.” Peggy stated.  
“Will she sing?” Letitia enquired.  
“Here’s a note,” was Peggy’s simple reply.  
“Oh for the love of Dirty Den! Another chuffing note!” Phil shouted before slumping into a chair.  
“Oh lets ‘ave a butchers” said a more calm Grant, who took the letter from Peggy and read it out loud, “Right you lot. I’ve sent you a few notes of the most genteel and amiable style, telling you how to run my theatre. Problem is you ain’t done wot I said ‘ave you? So to be generous I’ll give you one last chance then. Chrissie is back as you should know by now. I want to hear her sing some more, so tomorrow night you will stage Duckworth’s ‘Corrie’. The role of the landlady calls for charm and appeal, and the role of the barmaid is that of a pig-ugly and quiet troll. This makes my casting ideal! Chrissie will play Vera, and Letitia will play Hilda – the silent role. Keep box 3 empty for me so I can watch in peace. Cock this up and a disaster beyond your imaji imagen ability to think will occur. Your mate, TS.”  
There was an awkward pause.  
It was broken by Letitia: “It’s all a plot to help that hussy Chrissie. That’s what it is, and it’s all your fault!” She poked Ricky in the chest and turned to storm off.  
Phil shouted at her to come back “The trumped up numpty! Who does he think he is? Frighten us? I don’t think so. We WILL stage Corrie, and Letitia here will be Vera and Chrissie will play Hilda. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, you chuffing great Pearly Queen!”  
“Really? You’re not going to obey that mysterious twerp?” She asked.  
“Of course not” Said a defiant Grant, “This is our theatre and not his. He can naff off”.  
“Besides,” said Phil, “Just one poxing performance from that Dyer strumpet and she vanishes for a day without a word. What sort of behaviour is that for a star performer? You get the lead”.


	6. Duckworth's Corrie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil and Grant go ahead with ignoring the Pearly King's instructions.

It was the evening of the big performance. Phil and Grant were convinced that the Pearly King was full of hot air. They were true to their word and Letitia had indeed been cast as Vera, and consequently she was crowing like a loon. “I’m gonna knock ‘em dead with a big stick!” she said to herself. She was in her dressing room sorting out her make up for her first scene. Her partner and co-incidentally the male lead in the new production, Ernie Panell knocked on the door.  
“Oh senorrrrita!” he crooned, “We arrrrrre almost ready to starrrrt!”  
“Coooooming my looove!” She replied, and stood up. Massive Dolly Parton wig, absurd pink shiny dress and powder everywhere: she was ready. How could the bloody Pearly King stop her tonight when she looked like this?

Out in the auditorium, the final punters were being ushered to their seats: including a small party of toffs who were going into Box 3. Billy was up in the rafters and was not best pleased. They’d ignored him, the cheeky scamps. He dashed into his network of secret passageways. Phil and Grant were in Box 1: Apparently they thought they were royalty. They were unaware of anything unusual until a chilling voice came out of seemingly nowhere “Oi, you two pair of tarts! Didn’t I tell you to leave Box 3 empty? You just don’t chuffing listen do you?” The voice vanished.  
“Oh rats. I thought we’d heard the last of that masked twit.” Phil exclaimed.  
“I think that was just wishful thinking Phil old boy” Grant responded.  
“He’s going to do something stupid isn’t he?” Phil asked.  
“Quite probably. He’ll be hounding that bunch of posh moneybags out of box 3 in a minute I suppose” mused Grant.  
In box 2 sat the Viscount Ricky, wearing a frilly paisley shirt. He was vaguely aware of something nearby but was too busy brushing his hair to pay it too much attention.  
With a fanfare, the curtain raised. The stage was set up as The Rover's Return, the pub in Corrie as this was where most of the action happened.   
Chrissie, dressed as Hilda was the barmaid. Ernie was Jack and was leaning on the bar. Letitia Carlotta was dressed as Vera in a silly pink dress and huge wig, and was sat at a table quietly sipping pint of Guinness.  
‘Gail’ was also sat at a table, reading a magazine; ‘Mike’ was sat at the back, nursing a pint.

“Save a pint my darrrling, save a pint!” crooned Ernie “For summer nights with booze and no pub fights! For I must go to a dull meeting, in Bristol city and time is fleeting, so save a pint for me this summer night”  
Carlotta, sitting at her table looked up and replied: “How can you sing to her and not to me? For could it be I’m not enough for thee? With her you flirt and look so wishful, and then you head forthwith to Bristol, Am I not enough for you to see?”  
‘Mike’ stood up and butted in: “Will you people shut your bleeding traps? I’m trying to have a drink and to relax. You arguing will cause a headache, so kindly stop before your jaws break, and the incessant chatter makes you all collapse.” With that, the music abruptly stopped, and ‘Mike’ strutted off stage.  
“Well, that’s a turn up for the books” sang Ernie “he could have killed us all with a look. My dears I must now head away and I shall return to you all Mondaaaaay!”  
Meanwhile, above all the action, the toffs had just got comfy in Box three when Billy did the disembodied voice trick on them. “’Ere you lot, you’re sitting in MY seat. Would you be so kind as to naff off?”  
“I say Maude,” said the older member of the group, “Was that you?”  
“No it was not. I do not sound common.” Maude sternly replied.  
“I am far from common you posh oiks. Now beat it before I beat you” Said Billy with menace.  
The toffs panicked and ran out of the box.  
Billy closed the door behind them and locked it from the inside. He then lurked in the dark recesses of his little domain and settled down to watch the performance.

Letitia and Chrissie winked at each other theatrically, partially revealing their intentions to the audience.  
After Ernie had sung, he went to the front of the stage and addressed the audience conspiratorially. “I’d like to take the barmaid with me.” He winked and went off stage.  
Letitia got up and waltzed to the bar and sang to Chrissie “Now he’s gone and out of our hair, we can continue our little affair.”  
‘Gail’ looked at Letitia and Chrissie in surprise: She’d got something to stick her beak into.  
Hilda and Vera then ran off behind the bar for a quickie.

The phantom wasn’t a happy bunny at all. Did these people not listen to reason or obey instructions? He had given them the casting instructions and they’d bloody reversed them. “That’s it,” he muttered “consider this performance to be properly sabotaged.” With that he went back up to the rafters to consider his options.

‘Gail’ stood up and sang to the audience: “At last we have ourselves a scandal: An affair of love taboo, and although I am no vandal, this just will not do”  
‘Deirdre’ walked on. “Ooh, ‘ello Gail. Got any goss? Anyone in the factory screwing the boss?” she sang.  
“Theeere’s a secret affair which has been well hidden, involving Vera and Hilda making out in the kitchen.” Came the response  
‘Mike’ sauntered back in. He spotted Deirdre and ambled over to her.  
“Deirdre my love where have you been? Have you been with Ken on the sly? You know he’s the worst rat there’s been, He’s a cheating fool and a swine.”  
Deirdre replied: “I’ve just been up to Emmerdale, Visiting the Dingles and Dales. I’ve no idea what Ken’s been doing, for all I know he’s in Wales”.  
Billy suddenly had an idea: He quickly dashed to a secret store of gubbins and picked out a fishing line and fixed it to a beam. He lowered the hook carefully and snagged Carlotta’s wig, and gently lifted it up. Then, when it was high enough and the audience were in hysterics, he calmly clambered through the roof space to one of his handy secret passageways and zipped down to a spot under the stage.  
“It’s the Pearly King!” Gasped Chrissie.  
“Your part is silent, duck face!” Hissed Letitia as she flailed for her wig.  
By now, Billy was under the stage.  
“Duck madam?” Billy muttered under his breath “I think it is you who are the duck.”  
While Letitia was leaping up and down like a twit on a pogo stick, Billy quickly poured a phial of unidentifiable liquid into her drink.

Letitia finally managed to grab her wig, rammed it back on her head and gave the audience the most harsh glower. The hubbub quickly died down and the musical resumed:  
Letitia went back to the bar and took a big swig from her glass and sang: “My ladies love has set my bar aflame, la la la la QUACK!” A look of absolute terror crossed Carlotta’s face. She quickly forced it down and tried again “My ladies QUAAAACK!”  
She ran off the stage in a burst of sobs and quacks, accompanied by the audience laughing themselves silly.  
In a panic, Grant and Phil ran down to the stage and got the curtain pulled down. Phil quickly walked out in front of the curtain. “Ladies and gentlemen” he said “The performance shall continue in 10 minutes time, when the role of Vera will now be played b-b-b- by Miss Dyer.  
Grant joined him “In the meantime, we would like to present to you the dance scene from act 3 from tonight’s performance. Maestro, please bring the dance scene forward.”   
As Phil and Grant walked off, there was the sound of hurried scene shifting from behind the curtain.  
The curtain raised to reveal an altered set with some slightly flushed looking performers.

The dancers were sat at rows of oversized sewing machines.  
Mike walked in, and beckoned to one of the dancers, who got up and gracefully leapt and spun over to him.  
“We have a problem very currant; the police are getting a search warrant. They are on to our label thieving, and they will be here this very evening. They be wanting to stop the operation, So let’s prevent that dire situation.”  
The dancers all got up and danced around the factory equipment.  
“We are in a massive fix, the law will be here in a tic. They will hunt for evidence that’s damning," they sang.  
They were rudely interrupted when Joe Bucket, who had been drinking fairly heavily, plummeted headfirst out of the flies onto the centre of the stage, killing himself in the process. Panic erupted amongst the entire theatre with cries of “It’s the Pearly King!” emanating from various panicky people.  
Underneath the stage, Billy decided to beat a hasty retreat. “They blame me for bloody everything around here, and they’re certain to pin that on me” he muttered as he made his way up onto the roof.

In the panic Ricky ran over to Chrissie to see if she was all right. “Yes I am!” she snapped “C’mon, let’s get out of here before that masked prune does anything else.”  
She grabbed his hand and they ran toward the stairs that led to the roof.  
On the roof stood Billy, the Pearly King of the Theatre. Having just run up here himself he was breathing a little heavily. As he stood there getting his breath, he heard approaching footsteps.  
He looked around and saw a large-ish gargoyle on a neighbouring bit of flat roof and quickly hid behind it.  
The door to the roof burst open and Chrissie half fell out, pulling Ricky along.  
“Bloody nora!” exclaimed the viscount.  
“That narking Pearly King!” cursed Chrissie “He isn’t going to stop until he’s done us all in!"  
“There is no Pearly King!" Ricky responded.  
“Yes there bloody is!” snapped Chrissie, “I’ve been to his lair and seen his pig-ugly face. He’s definitely real. If he wasn’t, who keeps playing pranks on Letitia, and leaving everyone those childish notes? The tooth fairy? For that matter, who was it that killed Joe Bucket just now? And don’t tell me it was the ghost of Lionel Blair!”  
“All right, all right." Ricky conceded, “ I’ll grant you the Pearly King probably did send all those notes and keeps pranking Carlotta, but let’s face it: she screeches like a banshee. As for Joe, if the rumours are correct, then he spends his life in a permanent drunken haze. He probably tripped over his own feet in a wine-induced stupor.”  
Chrissie paused to think about that for a moment “Okay, I can buy that. He was partial to the odd case of wine. Every day. But the problem remains: the Pearly King is a dark force controlling our lives, running this theatre like it’s his own personal playground!”  
“No more talk of darkness.”Ricky soothed, “Forget these wide eyed fears. I’m here: nothing will harm, you, my words will warm and calm you.”  
“Oh come off it” Chrissie glowered at him, “You want to go on a date or not?”  
“Yeah all right." Ricky replied, "C'mon, let's go to a pub."  
He put his arm around her shoulder and they went off down the stairs discussing venues.  
Upon hearing all of this, the King mocked throwing up and angrily said,“Gordon Bennet get a room! I spend bloody ages teaching you how to be a proper cockney diva and this is how you repay me? If that’s how it’s going to be, then consider this war! I’m gonna get you two buggers if it’s the last thing I do!”   
He kicked a statuette for good measure, howled a curse against very solid stone and then limped back to his secret door.


	7. A Proper Knees-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Theatre folks are feeling safe, so they have a small party.

It was 6 weeks since the now infamous ‘Croaking Diva Debacle’, and the Pearly King hadn’t been heard of at all in that time. There had been no notes, no interruptions and no pranks: in short, he’d completely disappeared.   
The police had been called in, in order to deal with the somewhat suspicious demise of Joe Bucket. The subsequent investigation ruled out foul play and concluded that Joe was perpetually intoxicated and in all likelihood tripped and fell in a drunken stupor, and it was, according to the official report, ‘his own fat fault’.   
The Theatre’s management, in order to quell the disquiet of the past few weeks had decided to throw a massive knees-up. The theme they had chosen was a masquerade ball and the colour scheme was Gold and Black. They’d invited all the staff and the richer and more influential of the theatre’s patrons.  
Phil ‘s taxi pulled up. He emerged from the cab resplendent in a gold and black demon outfit with phallic horns and a gas mask. He sauntered over to the theatre doors where Grant was waiting.  
Grant was dressed in a Ali G outfit with a shiny black mask that had a large and dubious ‘horn’ coming out of its forehead.   
“Phillip my good man,” said Grant, “How are you on this fine evening? Welcome to the knees-up!”  
“Why thank you Senor Grant” replied Phil, “And a splendid knees-up it seems to be. Such a shame that the Pearly King is absent and will miss it. “  
“A shame indeed dear boy.” Replied his partner.   
As Phil and Grant exchanged insults, another taxi pulled up and out got a man dressed in Persian robes.  
“Why it’s our dear friend from Paris!” exclaimed Grant, “How are you old boy?”  
“I am well,“ replied their guest “How are you and your brother?”  
“We ain’t bad” Grant responded. Phil however was distracted by Peggy, who had just arrived dressed as a masked Wonder Woman. “Ignore Phil. Any sign of cleavage and he goes weak at the knees. Anyway, We’ll catch up with you soon dear boy, go on in and get a drink while we greet our guests.”  
“I shall catch you soon” the Persian guest turned to Peggy “Would you care to accompany Madame?” He extended an arm, which she accepted.  
“I’d love to,” Giggled Peggy Beery. “How do you know those two?” Peggy asked, hoiking a thumb at the managers.  
“Well, I was in the original book by Gaston Leroux, and for practical purposes in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical version I was mostly merged with Madame Giry, the only physical remains of me was the figure of a monkey in Persian robes sat on a barrel organ. Warner Hedgehog decided to redress the balance a bit, and when he was writing this parody invited me to this party and I accepted. He seemed to think it would be nice to include me, if only in passing.”  
“That sort of makes sense. It was very nice of him.” Peggy responded, "It’s a bit of a co-incidence that we’re talking as I myself am a parody of Lloyd-Webber's Madame Giry. Mr. Hedgehog sort of combined me with Peggy Mitchell from Eastenders, so I’m one hell of a peculiar mish-mash since I'm partially you. Anyway, enough of this post-modernist gibbering, shall we have some brandy?”  
“Don’t mind if I do,” replied the Persian.  
Outside Ricky and Chrissie had just arrived. They were dressed as Tweedle dum and Tweedle Dee. Chrissie had a cheap plastic ring on a chain around her neck as an accessory.  
“Viscount Camberwick, Miss Dyer, so glad you could make it”, enthused Phil.  
“Happy to be here my man.” replied Ricky.  
“Wouldn’t miss a knees-up for the world,” Chrissie added.  
As they shook hands and hugged, another taxi drew up and disgorged Madame Carlotta and Ernie Panell. Letitia Carlotta was dressed Alice in Wonderland and Ernie Panell had come as The Mad Hatter.   
“Madame Carlotta, so pleased you could be here. Welcome to the knees-up Mr Panell,” grinned Grant.  
They did the obligatory hug-and-kiss as Viscount Ricky and Chrissie went indoors. Letitia and Ernie followed them shortly after.   
After about half an hour of mindless chit-chat amongst the guests, the house band started playing some background music. This carried on for another 15 minutes, when Phil and Grant entered the foyer. That’s when the band launched into their cockney classics repertoire. After playing the Lambeth Walk in various styles for comic effect (and to get the crowd going), the band started to play ‘Roll out the barrel’, so everyone climbed the big staircase and to joined in.  
Suddenly the orchestra reached a bit in the score they weren’t expecting. What was a bit of jolly cockney musical japery suddenly became serious and heavy. A panel at the top of the staircase suddenly opened and lots of smoke poured out. Out of the smoke stepped the Pearly King. In a red and black costume complete with skull mask.  
“Oh for god’s sake.” muttered Phil “I thought we’d seen the last of that masked ponce”.  
“Shut up!” snapped the Pearly King “The rest of you are a bit quiet; did you think I’d left the Theatre? Not a chance! I have written you a musical, and I bring to you the finished score: ’James May Triumphant’!” With that he threw a leather-bound wad of paper on to a desk that he was passing.  
“A few points before I leave you good sirs.” He calmly sauntered over to Phil and Grant. “My managers must learn that their place is on a scrap heap and not the arts.” He meandered over to Letitia, “Madame Carlotta must be taught how to act and not to prance about the stage screeching like a wounded wombat!” As she put on her most affronted expression, Billy turned to Ernie,”You Mr.Panell have a terrible habit of stuffing pasties into your face. It’s not healthy in a man of any age, let alone yours. Maybe you should think about cutting down before your waistline balloons.” He paused and noticed Chrissie and Ricky, “As for Miss Dyer, she’s good but not great and if she truly wishes to excel she should return to me, her teacher and forget that floppy haired nonce she chooses to hang around with. Your soul belongs to ME!” He snatched the ring from around her neck and jumped backward. A hole in the floor opened up in front of him with a lot of smoke and a bang and Billy leapt into it.  
Chrissie turned to Ricky “What a weirdo. You gonna go after him?”  
“Are you kidding‽” replied the Viscount, “he could have any sort of trap set down there: a hall of freaky mirrors, killer rabbits, rabid ducks, anything. Sod that. Wonder why he grabbed that stupid ring before he pissed off?”  
“Maybe he thought it was a secret engagement ring or something?” mused Miss Dyer.  
“What an odd bloke.” Ricky observred.  
With the atmosphere completely ruined, the guests at the knees-up stood about nattering about what and odd and possibly dangerous nutcase they were dealing with. During this strange period of confusion, meandering, wittering and general hubbub, Ricky happened to strike up a conversation with Madame Beery.  
“This Pearly king has everyone on edge.” commented Ricky.  
“Yes he has. He’s a strange one and no mistake,” mused Madame Beery.  
“He has this place as his own playground and us as his playthings,” Ricky ranted.  
“But his main obsession is Chrissie it seems,” Peggy noted.  
They were aimlessly wandering around the theatre as they chatted.  
Peggy stopped at a seemingly random point. “This was where he first used a secret door”, she said to herself.  
“What was that?” the Viscount asked.  
“Nothing, nothing! Just gibbering to myself!” Madame Berry hurriedly blurted.  
“No, I think you know more than you’re letting on.” Ricky persisted.  
“I know no more than anyone else!” wailed Peggy.  
“I don’t think that’s true. You know more about this Pearly King, you have to.” Ricky glowered at Peggy.  
“All right, I know a little." she conceded.  
Ricky wasn’t going to give in easliy, “But Madame Beery, a little is better than nothing.  
Madame Beery sighed. It’d been a long day so far, she could murder a whiskey and now this pillock wanted information.  
“All right mister.” She said wearily, “I do know something. Follow me.” She led him to a secluded little room somewhere under the stage. “We should be safe here. It was many years ago when I was a mere dancer. Beppe’s French Circus was in town, and they had him as an exhibit: ‘Come and see the hideous accountant’ they said, I entered the tent and was ushered along by a grubby bearded man, and all of a sudden, there he was: a child in a cage with a bag on his head, a grotty abacus and an ill-fitting pinstripe suit. As the crowd gathered, the beardy in charge entered the cage and went to the boy and pulled the bag from his head. The crowd erupted I tells you, erupted. They were jeering, laughing, pointing and smoking.”  
“Is that important?” Ricky enquired, “Surely smoking is nothing really to do with it.”  
“They were proper minging. That’s all. I suppose the stench stood out in my mind. Anyway, when they’d seen enough they drifted off to see some of the other dull crap in the circus. When the crowd had gone, the beardo went to leave the cage. The boy in the bag suddenly leapt up and clonked the bloke on the head with his abacus. What else could I do? I helped him escape.  
As we ran from the circus, our path was blocked by one of those awful French clowns. He refused to do anything funny or helpful and just stood there shrugging. I had to punch his stupid grimacing face, I just had to, do you understand?”  
Ricky nodded, “Only last week, a travelling French circus was in town and one of their clowns stood there shrugging at me, so I too have punched a stupid white-faced clown in his ridiculous face.”  
“Anyway,” Madame B continued, “We legged it from the circus and he’s been here ever since.”  
“Would you say he’s gone loopy in the intervening time?” The Viscount enquired.  
“Yeah, probably.” Said Madame Beery gloomily.  
With that, they went to rejoin whatever was left of the by now ruined knees-up.


	8. The Cemetery Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bit where the jerk in the mask and the rich ponce fight.

It was the morning following the Knees-up. Chrissie woke up and looked around. “Why am I in a stable?” she asked herself. She reached up and felt the top of her head, “and why am I wearing a traffic cone?”  
Then it hit her: The hangover from hell.  
“Oh my lordy,” she muttered, “I’m in a right two and eight.”  
As she levered herself upright, in strode Ricky: The Viscount of Camberwick, irritatingly chirpy and hangover-free.   
“Any smart remarks and I’ll thump you, oh fiancée of mine,” growled the under-the-weather diva.   
“Hey, calm it down my love” responded the over jolly Viscount.  
With great care, Chrissie stood up and removed her traffic cone hat. “Look, you cheery git, I’m off to get something to eat, sort out these shabby rags I appear to be wearing, and bugger off to Sun Hill to see dad’s shrine today. It’s not your sort of place at all: you wouldn’t fit in and the locals would all take the piss. You’d best stay here and twiddle with your toes.”   
As for why Chrissie was going from Walford to Sun Hill, here’s the reason:  
Years ago, Chrissie’s father Lenny Dyer had a regular watering hole. After his performances at the legendary Sun Hill Skiffle Dome he would go to the Cemetery Scene and share a pint with the locals. It was his chosen method of winding down. He would have his favourite corner and sit there nattering and chatting with his friends. Occasionally he would play them a tune on his trombone.  
After he died, the people he befriended built a shrine to him in the corner of the pub, and Chrissie would go there every now and then to pay her respects and to have a drink with her dad’s mates.  
Today was her father’s birthday so she decided to go to the Pub in Sun Hill and place a pint on his shrine.   
After this brief bit of plot explanation, Chrissie gave Ricky a quick hug then went to her little room in the theatre for a quick wash and a change of clothes.   
As she came down the stairs to the foyer, she ran into Grant who was taking down some of the older posters. “Hey there Grant,” she patted him on the back, “I’m off to the ABC cafe for breakfast, then I’ll be at the Cemetery Scene in Sun Hill if anyone wants me today. You don’t need me around do you?”  
“Nah” he replied, “We’ve got a planning meeting today. Seems we have to do some senseless rubbish called ‘James May Triumphant’. I suppose we have to keep that masked loony happy.” He paused as if remembering some tiny detail, “The ABC cafe? Isn’t that where those student revolutionaries used to hang about before the government troops shot them?”  
“Yeah, that’s the place” the diva responded, “It’s a good place if you want a fried breakfast.”  
“Fair enough,” said Grant, “see you later maybe.” He got back to dismantling the advertising.  
About 20 minutes later Chrissie walked through the door of the ABC cafe. The lady behind the till waved. “Mornin’ my favourite singer, how’s you on this fine day, and how was the knees-up last night?”  
“Mornin’ Sharon,” replied Chrissie, “Let’s say my head is not happy. One of your fine fry-ups might solve it though.”  
“Sounds like it was a proper party.” mused the cafe owner. She turned and shouted out to the kitchen, “Rita! A full Thenardier for Miss Dyer!”  
“I’ve always meant to ask, why do you call your breakfasts ‘Thenardiers’?” Chrissie asked.  
“Well, I used to work at this inn on the coast, and the owner was called Thenardier,” recounted Sharon with a grin, “and he was a health hazard, as are fry-ups!”   
“Fair dos.” came the reply.  
After breakfast, Chrissie ambled to the local underground station. Sun Hill could wait, shopping was more important: she was off to Oxford Street to buy some expensive junk.  
6 hours later, and armed with a brand new pair of shoes, she set off for The Cemetery Scene.  
When she arrived the usual set-up greeted her: Sitting at the bar were a trio of fat, balding locals: Frankie B, Bob Cryer and Dale ‘Smithy’ Smith.  
“Bloody Nora you lot, don’t you ever leave this place?” exclaimed the singer.  
“We would, but we’re duty bound to be here. If we leave, the stools'll float away!” joked Frankie.  
“Besides, Sam here would miss us.” Smithy chipped in.  
Sam the barmaid looked up from the paper she was reading, “Well blow me, it’s Chrissie! How’s ya doing? How’s theatre life?”  
Chrissie considered it for a moment then said, “It ain’t bad, though the parties do your head in." Suddenly a hitherto unnoticed black and white appeared, "Hey, you have a cat! He’s cute. I take it that the cat’s a him?”  
“He’s not our cat, but he does spend a lot of time here. His name’s Mr Mistoffoles. Between you and me, he’s a bit of a magician. Somehow he seems to get in when no-one opens a door or a window and when you think he’s by the fire there’s a purr from somewhere by the bar, but apart from that he is indeed very cute.”

Meanwhile at the theatre, Ricky was lounging about in the foyer while watching people work. Phil walked in through the main doors. “Why, it’s the Viscount, How are you my man?” asked the manager.  
“I’m all right, its Miss Dyer I’m concerned about. She’s been gone all day. This morning she said something about going to her dad’s shrine in Sun Hill, whatever that means.”  
“It’s something she apparently does every now and then," Phil said, “There’s a shrine to her late father in a pub called The Cemetery Scene, and she goes there on his birthday and a few other times in the year to have a drink with the locals and to put a pint in front of his picture.”  
“Does she usually spend all day there?” asked the Viscount.  
“Not normally. Maybe she went shopping first.” Phil wondered.  
“Possibly, possibly. I can’t help thinking that a certain masked loon we are all afflicted by might go there and try something.”   
Ricky and Phil’s conversation was interrupted by Dave the janitor. “Excuse me sirs, but someone has taken the keys to the van."  
Phil turned to the janitor. “Do you have any idea who it was Dave?”   
“No sir,” came the reply, “They were there one moment, then I turned my back and they were gone.”  
Phil turned to Ricky “You may be right. Follow me. Thank you Dave.”  
They went to the key rack and the keys were indeed missing. There was however a note. Phil picked it up and read aloud, “Hi guys, had to borrow the van. Don’t ask why. Your mate, PK. Oh my lordy, he’s pinched the van.” Phil threw the note down.  
“He’s after Chrissie again! I’m going after him!” With that, Ricky ran off to get a taxi.  
Back at the Cemetery Scene, the regulars were drinking up. It was time for them to go home.  
Frankie B was the last to leave, “Goodnight Chrissie, see you again soon huh?”  
“Sure thing Frankie," she replied.  
He went out and shut the door quietly.  
Chrissie turned back to the bar. Sam the barmaid was stacking up the used glasses.   
“So Chris, what’s the theatre’s next production then?” she asked.  
“It’s going to be something completely new,” replied the singer, “I can’t say anything at the moment, but rest assured, it’s probably going to be very, very weird.”  
Sam walked out to a back room and went very silent, ominously so.  
A different yet familiar voice suddenly emanated from the back room: “Wandering child you shall know me, going to pubs on your own, you should be far above this place, such is how you’ve grown.”  
“Sam, what are you on about? And why the silly accent?” shouted Chrissie.  
“Wandering child, you do know me, my name it isn’t Sam, I am your fairy of music, and this is no scam,” replied the voice.  
Suddenly the door to the pub was kicked open by Ricky. “Chrissie!” yelled the flouncy viscount as he barged in, “That is not your fairy of music! It’s a nutcase with a grudge of some sort!”  
Suddenly the Pearly king leapt out from the back room. “And just who do you think you are, you long haired woofter?!” With that he started throwing packets of nuts at Ricky.  
Ricky batted a few away as he headed toward his opponent.  
The king leapt over the bar and they squared off, “You want some of this?” he snarled.  
“Yeah, I’ll ‘ave you, ”growled the Viscount.  
“Boys, don’t fight!” wailed the cockney diva.  
Ricky and Billy turned to face Chrissie. “Shut up you!” yelled the two macho meatheads in unison.  
They turned back to each other, “Let’s settle this like men” said the Pearly King in a calm voice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a deck of cards. “Snap. Winner takes all.”   
Ricky nodded “Let’s do this mask face!”   
They sat at the nearest table and Billy shuffled the deck, which he put face down on the table. He looked Ricky in the eye “Cut the cards.”  
Ricky cut the deck into two piles. Billy grabbed one pile and threw it behind him. “Deal.” He commanded.   
Ricky picked the remainder of the deck up and dealt the cards.   
They started banging cards onto the table, one after the other. Every match was greeted with a quickly barked ‘snap!’, as the game went back and forth.  
Suddenly Ricky noticed little dot patterns in the corner of each card back. “These are marked!” he shouted and punched the Pearly King to the ground.  
He leapt to his feet and grabbed a nearby novelty knob-shaped salt shaker and was about to beat his opponent with it when Chrissie intervened. “No Ricky! Not like this.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the pub.  
Billy levered himself up onto his elbows, “Let it be war on you both.” he mumbled.  
Sam marched out from the back room, massaging the back of her head. She was in a foul mood after ‘persons unknown’ had knocked her out. She saw the Pearly King getting to his feet, stormed over and grabbed him by the collar. She dragged him to the door and flung him out with considerable force. “And stay out you! You’re barred and we’re closed. Now naff off!” She slammed the door and bolted it.

A short while later:  
Ricky, Phil and Grant were Lounging in the manager’s office, discussing how to stitch the Pearly King right up. “It’s simple," said Ricky, “We do his poncy show and have a bunch of rozzers waiting around the place – y’know, guarding the doors and such. When he shows his face we’ll nab ‘im and then it’s a 10 stretch easy.”   
Grant, who had banged his head on a bit of scenery earlier in the day looked up and said “If the NSA are reading this, would the operative in question be tempted to write a review d’you think?”  
Phil looked at him for a moment and responded “I told you earlier Grant. Go home.”  
Grant looked about woozily “I’ll think about that Phillip my man.” He nodded off and started snoring.


	9. James May Triumphant!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King's masterpiece is staged. Will James May win? Will Ricky's plan succeed? Can I shoehorn another TV reference in?

It was the night of the performance of the Pearly King's meisterwork: there were police everywhere, and a lot of them were watching box 3. “I’d like to see that masked jerk get his way now.” Said Grant.  
“Damn right” said Phil peering up at box three from the wings, “He’s up shit creek."  
However, despite the well laid plans of mice and managers, Billy, the Pearly King wasn’t about to start appearing where he was expected. Instead of showing up in Box 3 as everyone seemed to think he was going to: he had other ideas.   
Ernie Pannel strode onto the stage, dressed as James May with his lackey, 'Hamster' in tow.  
“Recite to me the plan with which you intend to deceive Clarksan,” Sang Hamster.  
“You dressed as me, take his 2CV. From his point of view, he will then mistake you, and then with a grim-ace, he will have to give you chase, Then I on my own-a get to lady Veyronaaaa!” sang Ernie.  
They ran off stage, cackling as they went. Keeping a watchful eye out for any disruption to his plan, the Pearly King grabbed an opportunity and lured Ernie off to one side with an éclair. Once the rotund actor was suitably separated from the rest of the cast, Bily knocked him out with a handy washboard. After suitably restraining and silencing the unconscious Ernie, he watched from the wings dressed as James May as the 2CV theft scene unfolded.   
The time was approaching when his ‘final scene’ with Veyrona, AKA Chrissie was to be staged.  
The actors from the 2CV scene left the stage and the curtain came down so the set could be changed. The actor playing Clarksan was in front of the curtain performing ‘Clarksan’s Lament’. Billy was quite pleased with this musical monologue in which Clarksan sang of his beloved 2CV, comparing it to various other cars and how they were all just rubbish.  
Soon the tribute to a little French runaround was over and the curtain rose to reveal Chrissie, dressed as Veyrona sitting demurely on a settee. The time had come for Billy's grand entrance. 

The King, dressed as a hooded James May and in full lecherous git mode stalked onto the stage and started to sing, “You have come here, In pursuit of your deepest urge , In pursuit of that speed which till now has been absent, absent. I have brought you, that our fuels may mix and merge. In your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses. Completely succumbed to me, Now you are here with me, No second thoughts, You've decided Decided. Past the red no-entry sign, don’t use your mirror, our games in rally cars are at an end. Past all thought of “1st” or “3rd”, No use in braking. Hit the gas and let the engine rev. High octane petrol floods the soul, turn the key and let it flow, what sweet driving lies before us? Now we’re on the autobahn, the road’s before us, what acceleration will we see? We’re now on the motorway.”  
Chrissie watched him as he stalked his way around the stage. It was her turn to sing: “You have brought me, to that moment when words run dry. To that moment when thought disappears   
into driving. Driving. I have come here, on my little motorbike, in my mind I've already imagined   
our sports cars side by side, The engines un-silent. Now I am here with you, No second thoughts, I've decided, Decided. Straight onto the motorway, No going back now, our racing life has now at last begun. Past all thought of slow or stop, one final question, Can we get on to the road right now? When will the cars begin to race, The idle motor burst to life, when will the gearbox propel us forward?"  
The king, who had been encircling Chrissie, joined in with harmony, “On the high speed driving road   
The final threshold, the slip-lane’s passed so let it fall behind, We've passed the point of no return”.   
Chrissie looked at the Pearly King in a quizzical way. This was too different from rehearsal. He was singing it right for a start. She knew this couldn't be Ernie as he was rubbish at this bit, and there was only one deranged fruitcake that was liable to be under that hood.  
“Oh for the love of jellied eels!” she snapped and whipped the hood from his face, revealing his masked mush to the entire theatre.  
“It’s the Pearly King!” cried one of the eternally over-acting theatre bods.  
“Yeah yeah, we guessed that. Don’t milk yer part.” Snapped another less impressed one.  
As Chrissie looked sadly at her tormentor and he stood unsure of what to do next, she calmly reached up and snatched his mask away, thus showing his deformed visog to all.

As the assembled gawking berks gasped, Billy looked about in despair. “Why on earth did you do that you daft tart?” he asked calmly. “I’ll have to terrorise everyone now.” Suddenly he grabbed Chrissie and in a fit of anger cut a rope on the stage, which both released a trap door beneath them sending them into the space below the stage, as well as releasing all of the safety mechanisms that held the amusingly knob-shaped enormous chandelier up.  
As Billy dragged Chrissie down to his rubbish filled lair, the Chandelier plummeted down to earth, and due to its frankly piss poor wiring, it started a small fire which was extinguished quickly by a quick-thinking usher. Amid the chaos of punters and actors running about like gormless twits and headless chickens, Ricky grabbed Peggy Beery and asked her to show him the way to the Pearly King’s lair. “This way mister.” She said and dragged him off.   
As they went, Mo appeared “I’ll go with you.” She offered.   
Peggy put a kindly hand on her shoulder “No Mo. You must stay here dear and see to it that this bunch of panicky chowderheads calms down. They’ll only wreck something or injure themselves.”   
“Oh all right.” Mo pouted and glumly started herding people.  
Peggy resumed her mission and took Ricky to a seemingly blank bit of wall. She looked about to see if anyone was watching, kicked it and shouted “My old man’s a mushroom!” Suddenly a panel slid back and she pulled Ricky through the portal. In front of them was a mysteriously large and out of place stone spiral staircase. Peggy pointed down into the murky darkness. “’e went down that way guv. That’s where his lair is. If you’re going after ‘im, watch it. Bill’s a dodgy geezer and no mistake.”  
Ricky rushed down the stairs, but at the bottom the Pearly King’s ‘Diversion’ sign was still there. Ricky obediently followed where it pointed and ducked through a low archway. Suddenly there was a noise behind him! A Huge flap had come down and then he realised – he was in an enormous paper bag and he had to fight his way out!  
His struggle with the paper bag was epic as he punched, kicked and generally thrashed at it. He paused to see if the flap had reopened but he was still trapped. In desperation he pulled his blunt car-boot penknife out and jabbed at the bag but because it was a rusty lump of crap he'd bought from old man Trotter, the blade just bent double. Eventually after resorting to biting it, he managed to make a hole in the damp paper. Finally free from his papery prison he was able to carry on looking for Chrissie. The distant sound of her berating the once-masked theatre loon helped him navigate his way through the mouldy old tunnels to the Pearly King's lair. 

As he staggered into the enormous cavern, the King looked up and noticed the visitor. “It seems we have an unwelcome guest! How nice of you to join us posh boy. Stay here a mo and witter to yourself, I'll handle the ponce." He calmly pushed Chrissie back and walked toward Ricky, picking up an old tyre on the way. Suddenly he slammed it down over Ricky’s arms, trapping him. There was a rope attached to the tyre which he quickly used to hoist Ricky into the air.  
“It’s me or this dangling berk, Chrissie” snarled the king. “Make a choice. My face or his hair: which is worse? Say you love him and he dies, say you love me however." Billy picked up a scythe prop from an old production of Dingle's Emmerdale and waved it at the suspended nob.  
"Save yourself Chrissie!" Yelled the viscount.  
The cockney diva looked from Ricky to Billy and back again, “Sorry Kingy-baby, but I have to face facts. You may well be ugly, but at least he can have a haircut. Plus he doesn’t live in an abandoned underground station with serious damp problems. Come to think of it he doesn’t have an addiction to candles either. Look at this place: there’s melted wax everywhere.” Chrissie replied, “I hope its wax anyway. So on reflection it’s gotta be him.”  
Billy looked at the ground. She was bloody well right. “Oh sod it,” said Bill as he lowered Ricky to the ground, “Look you two, naff off before that bunch of weirdoes get here. Go on. Forget this stuff,” he waved an arm around to indicate the cave, “They’ll only ask stupid questions and put you on a godawful chat show of some sort. Oh yeah, lose the tyre Viscount: it really doesn’t suit you.”  
With Chrissie’s aid Ricky managed to get the tyre off and he shook the Pearly King’s hand.   
“Cheers guy, Thanks very much. “said Ricky. And with that Ricky and Chrissie waltzed off together.

A knackered Billy kicked a few things over in frustration and stared at the ground. “This gig’s over then.” He muttered to himself. In a dark corner of the station was a door covered with a poster advertising Kenneth James’ ‘Carry on Escaping’. There was also a small red sign that read “This is not a secret exit” just in front of it. He walked over to it and with a quick glance back at his home, turned and went out; locking the door behind him to make sure they wouldn’t follow. Just as he turned the key, the blood thirsty mob finally found its way to his grotty, trash-strewn lair. They looked about in amazement at the sheer volume of knackered theatre junk that was lying about, covered in what they sincerely hoped was candle wax. A somewhat puzzled Mo arrived just after the main mob and as she poked her beak around the mountains of stuff the Pearly King had left behind, she came upon a discarded mask next to a music box with a lemur in a zoot suit on top.  
She picked up the mask and was suddenly in a spotlight. She looked up at Phil Slag who was playing with the electrics, “Stop that you daft ponce!” she snapped. “I thought I was on stage for a second.”


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last bit.

Walford 1990  
Once more the magical Hollywood effects technicians descend upon the story, allowing a very expensive and mind-tinglingly clever transition to take us from full colour in the Pearly King’s lair to a black-and white much-aged Viscount hobbling along, carrying the music box from the auction in the prologue.   
As he bibbles along, he looks at the music box in his hands and smiles, apparently thinking of how it reminds him of Chrissie. Just before he reaches the cemetery gate he turns sharply and enters a charity shop, where he hands the music box to the shop assistant. As he walks out, she looks at it as if she’s just been handed a putrid dog turd and chucks it without ceremony into a bin.  
As he goes past the cemetery, the Pearly King leaps out from behind the gate, knocks the Viscount’s hat off and pegs it down the road. He runs straight into a policeman and gets subjected to some serious questioning.   
The Viscount shrugs, shakes his head sadly and crosses the road and goes into the End of the World pub. The camera pans and zooms in on the pub sign, centring on the word 'End'. The only sound we hear is 'Ladies Night' coming from the Jukebox.

The End.


End file.
